All That She Leaves Behind
by Opapea
Summary: She didn't want to leave with regrets. A Laura deathfic, preEpiphanies. AR kind of


Title: All That She Leaves Behind 

Author: Opapea

Summary: She didn't want to leave with regrets. A Laura death-fic, pre-Epiphanies. A/R (kind of)

Timeline: Post-Resurrection Ship II, set within Epiphanies

Disclaimer: I'm telling you now, if I owned BSG, I'd screw it up royally. RDM and Co. do a fine job. I'm just expanding.

A/N: My first foray into the land of BSG fanfic, and my first published fic in a couple of years. I really know nothing about Laura's mother except what I read in the BSG Wiki. And even then, I might have screwed it up. Sorry. Unbetaed.

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As her mother lay dying, she had begun to ramble. Laura would not have been surprised, considering the pain in her mother's eyes was unbearable, had it not been for the fact that they had never really been that close. Things had been better before, when her father and sisters had been alive, but after they were gone her mother had thrown herself into grief, while Laura buried herself in work. It had been an easy decision, at the time...however, as her mother grasped her hand and began to talk in the last few days of her life, Laura had started to think she should have taken the opportunity (even though that was not necessarily the way she preferred to describe the tragedy that had occurred) to bridge the gap, so to speak. However, cancer struck, and a brief ten months later, there was not a chance. But that did not stop her mother from talking.

"When your father and sisters died, I realized I had never considered their deaths as a possibility in my mind. I think we all think we're going to live forever, and we don't -- obviously. I began to regret that I kept putting off celebrating our anniversary. I regretted telling Andrea she should stop dating that janitor. I think she might have had a real shot with him, you know? I was mad at myself for not going with Ilia to see that play she had been working on so hard with her kids. I no longer had the chance to plan that "girls night out" I'd been talking about setting up. I regret not eating more cake. I regret not letting you girls have a dog when you were little. I regret not cooking more for your father -- you know how much he loved my lasagna. I regret not joining the city choir. I regret that I let you slip away from me, when you were all I had left. I regret not telling you about my cancer, figuring you wouldn't care...you were a daddy's girl, after all. I wanted to hate you, and I hate that. I missed the opportunity to love you like I should. I regret not...not...not telling you, and your sisters, and your father, that I loved you. I know you knew, but sometimes it felt like you didn't. Or that I didn't. I don't know anymore. I have a lot of regrets Laura, but I'm about to die, and there's nothing I can do about it."

As she spoke her hand had tightened around her remaining daughter's wrist, and she stared at Laura as if thinking that the only way she would stay alive for a bit longer was to have her daughter understand her. Laura held her gaze in the same way her mom's nails pierced her skin: hard, sharp, unflinching. They weren't good at truth, these two, but they didn't have enough time to try and fix the years of ignorance and bitterness that existed, so they had to make it work in the best way they could. And they were.

"I always prided myself on letting you girls figure out things for yourself -- for the most part. Sometimes I think I should have given you advice about some things, but I know you, especially you, wouldn't have listened. But since I have this time left, I'm going to hope my deathbed is the one place you'll listen." She stopped to take a breath, and Laura felt something in her throat rise up, but she didn't stop her. Her life had been something of a hellhole lately. Perhaps what her mother had to say might drag her out. Or maybe not.

"Don't worry about death. Face it honey: you're going to die." She chuckled, but then began to cough. Her daughter grabbed her water, and she helped her sip a bit. She didn't take much, and Laura added it to the many signs showing it was not going to be much longer. Her mother searched out her eyes again, and continued. "You will die. You can't control when or how or why. But you can control your life. This is going to sound really cliché, but live your life the way you want to. Don't hold back, unless there's a really good reason, of course. If you do have regrets, try to fix them. If you can't, don't dwell. You'll be missing more things, more days filled with time to do something different."

After that, her mother kissed her hand, and rolled over to rest a bit. A week later, after the funeral, she moved to Caprica City to work on Adar's campaign. Four months later, she kissed him after a late night of fundraising. She decided not to regret it -- at least not because he was married.

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She did not regret airlocking potential Cylons. She did not regret dividing the fleet in the pursuit of the way to Earth. She did not regret advocating the assassination Admiral Cain. She did, however, regret not staying with Adama a few more moments after he had kissed her. Billy probably appreciated it though, she thought ruefully.

If she'd had the strength, she would have walked back down the hall, to the room, to Bill, and kissed him back. But that was too rash, and she probably would have collapsed on the way back. She knew it was only a matter of time before she was wheeled into the sick bay to die, but she was not going to speed up her imminent death by rushing back to the Commander -- scratch that, Admiral -- to return the affection. But why now, for Gods sakes?

It was the first time since her diagnosis she found herself wishing she wasn't going to die within the next two weeks.

At the funeral for her father and sisters, she lost count of the number of people who had told her how lucky she was that she and her mother had not been with them at the time of the accident, that they were still alive. Laura had had her doubts about that, seeing as how the grieving process had left her raw and feeling slightly inhuman -- it's not that she wished she had died with them, but she didn't want to pick up the pieces and move on. However, having watched her mother up until the moment the breath left her body, and now that she was going through the same thing, she wished her death would come soon and swift, instead of this monotonous and never-ending waiting game. The time was affording her moments and hours of contemplation, usually about her life, occasionally of her death and what would happen afterwards (neither her mother's word nor her religious leanings were affording her peace on the matter), and, most of all, about her regrets.

Though most of her unfinished business was fairly recent and could be added to the growing list of projects and missions she was passing on to Baltar, a lot of it had been obliterated with nuclear holocaust. She figured that was one thing she could thank the Cylons for: making her previous lists of "why nots" and "whys" obsolete. She hadn't had time to worry about that in the past six months, and, mercifully, most of them were kept at bay. Nothing she could do now, she figured; might as well focus on wrapping up what she did know was attainable.

That was why, when she woke up in the infirmary a few days later, she knew there was no time left. She had now, and nothing was holding her back. Besides, even if she made a royal mess out of everything, she wouldn't be around to be embarrassed about it.

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At one point in the chaos, she had what she was figured would be her last moment to herself. Billy was off running errands, and when Doc Cottle came over to ask her if she needed anything, she replied, "Yes. I'd like a glass of water, and the Admiral."

Now, Cottle had no reason to question anything, but she did see his brow quirk up before he left. She waited, hoping everyone would leave her alone for a while. She was dying -- she deserved to spend her last hours not thinking about something official. Sooner than she expected, Bill slid in and shut the curtain behind him.

They regarded each other for a moment, both trying not too hard to look like they were memorizing the other's face, while there was still life left to do so. Finally, Laura did what she had been wanting to do since she left the day she promoted him: she smiled and stretched out her hand to him, praying he would take it. He did, of course, and she softly grasped his hand, pulling it and him towards the seat next her bed, to her.

After a few more moments of silence, Bill looked at their connected hands, and said quietly, "I guess this isn't about official business."

She laughed lightly. "Well, I guess if Baltar fraks things up enough, you have my posthumous permission to impeach him by way of airlock." She felt his hand shake, and she was glad to see him laughing along with her.

She took another breath, hoping what she was about to say would sound right. "I called you in here to see you. And to thank you. For everything."

"You mean, disrespecting your authority and throwing you in the brig? Because the last time I checked, most people don't appreciate that kind of behavior. Then again, I always thought you were a bit unorthodox." He met her eyes again, and they both smiled.

"Well, there's nothing like mass genocide to make you change your habits. Or, you know, force you into a presidency you didn't want or know how to handle."

She felt his hand tighten, almost fiercely, and she couldn't look up when he remarked, most sincerely, "Laura, you made the most of an impossible situation with as much grace and dignity as you could muster. You took the reins of leadership without worrying about yourself, you convinced a third of the fleet to respect you and follow you to the edge of the universe, and you knocked some sense into an old military commander who wouldn't have made it this far without you. I should be thanking _you_."

Her eyes were full and her throat stiff, but she managed to get out a small response: "You already have."

There was once again a silence, but one of closeness, not anticipation.

"I wanted to thank you," she started slowly, "for giving me another chance. For accepting me and allowing yourself to take a chance on an old school teacher that had nothing left. I had no family left before the attacks, but you provided me with the friendship that I have needed in the good times, the few that there have been, and the bad. You've done so much..." She drifted off, silently cursing herself for not knowing what to say next. There was so much to say, but no words, for either of them, so she looked at him with an intensity she had not felt since before her mother died, and held his hand, connecting them both to the moment as best as she could. She wanted, needed him to see everything.

As the rushing in her ears died down, she opened her mouth to speak, but when nothing came out, he handed her the water Cottle had left by her bed. Once she sat it back down, she tried again.

"I didn't want to leave, still regretting that I never told you how I felt. On her deathbed, my mother told me to not hold back, to not regret, as she had. So, really, I don't want to die. I don't want to die because I'm leaving you behind, and I'm regretting that I won't have more time with you. Whatever would have happened, it doesn't matter. But I would have had it with you. I just wanted you to know."

Bill visibly hesitated, but then whispered, "I already do. And I wish you weren't going to die, either." He stood up, leaned over the bed, and pressed his lips to her forehead, bringing his free hand to her shoulder, trying to find the line between gently holding her and pressing his life into her through his hands, as if she would somehow live longer simply because he willed it. They stayed that way long enough for Laura to realize, almost ecstatically, that he got it, what she was trying to say. And that was enough.

She felt moisture hit the top of her head, and knew she was crying as well when she heard him murmur, "I'll miss you." And with that he brought his face down so he could see her shining eyes, gave her hand one last squeeze, and let go. She felt him go, and her eyes followed him as he walked back to the curtain. As he opened the curtain, she softly said, "Good-bye, William Adama. See you on the other side." And despite any reservations he may have had, he nodded to her, stepped outside, and pulled the makeshift door back into place.

She had done what she meant to do. For the first time, she felt she could lay down, close her eyes, and never wake up. With no regrets.

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A/N 2: This fic was brought about by the imminent death of a friend, and I decided to take my recent dwelling on death to the creative end of things. I hope you enjoyed it, and I'm always trying to improve my writing, so reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.


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